The world looked different after the Sync Test. The grey sky, the muddy grounds, the constant shouts—it was all the same, but Leo felt separated from it by a pane of glass. He moved through the rest of the day in a daze, the phantom warmth of the crystal still lingering in his palm.
It recognized me. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. But what does that mean?
He watched the others with new eyes. Lysander carried himself with a subtle new authority, the one who had at least sparked a reaction. He tried to engage Rourke in a discussion about tactical theory from a manual he'd procured.
Rourke just snorted, hefting a heavy ammunition crate as if it were a feather. "Theory? The only theory I need is 'point the shooty end at the bad guys.' Your fancy spark doesn't mean squat out here, Croft."
Finn, now secure in his Null status, seemed to relax into his role as the squad's observer. He was always watching, noting, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "Did you see how the Corporal's uniform is frayed at the cuffs? The supply lines must be stretched thin. And the rations are getting smaller. This war isn't going well."
Leo said nothing, merely listening. He was the quiet center of their little storm.
The next phase of training was weapons and tactics. They were marched to the firing range, a vast, dusty field pockmarked with berms and targets. The air cracked with the sound of gunfire, a chaotic symphony that set Leo's teeth on edge.
"THIS IS YOUR NEW WIFE!" Sergeant Voss bellowed, holding up a long, sleek rifle with a stock of dark, polished wood and a barrel of blued steel. "THE VX-39 BATTLE RIFLE! SHE FIRES A 7.62MM CARTRIDGE! SHE WILL FEED YOU, PROTECT YOU, AND KEEP YOU WARM AT NIGHT! YOU WILL TREAT HER WITH THE RESPECT SHE DESERVES!"
Leo was issued his own rifle. It was heavier than he expected, the metal cold and impersonal. The weight was all wrong. It felt like a dead thing in his hands, a tool of pure destruction that had no connection to the living world.
This isn't right. It's... loud. It doesn't belong.
"VANCE! YOU HOLD THAT RIFLE LIKE IT'S A SNAKE! IT'S A TOOL! A PART OF YOU! NOW, GET ON THE LINE AND MAKE ME PROUD!"
Leo took his position on the firing line, the gravel digging into his knees. He tucked the stock into his shoulder as instructed, lined up the iron sights on a distant silhouette target, and took a deep breath. The noise was overwhelming. Dozens of rifles firing at once, the concussive blasts pounding against his eardrums. He felt disoriented, disconnected.
He squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The recoil jarred his shoulder, a sharp, violent punch. The shot went wide, kicking up dirt a good five feet to the left of the target.
I can't focus with all this noise.
"VANCE! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO HIT THE TARGET, NOT SCARE THE WORMS! AGAIN!"
Leo took another breath, trying to block out the chaos. He thought of the farm. The silence of the fields at dawn. The single, precise shot of his father's hunting rifle, taking a rabbit for the stew pot. One shot. One kill. Patience.
He squeezed the trigger again.
BANG.
Closer. A foot to the right. It was better, but still terrible.
Next to him, he heard a different sound. A methodical, almost rhythmic crack... crack... crack. He glanced over.
Tomas, the quiet, lean recruit with the intense eyes, was firing. Each shot was a controlled, deliberate action. He'd fire, work the bolt with a smooth, practiced motion, exhale, and fire again. His targets, two hundred meters downrange, were sprouting new holes dead center. He wasn't just shooting; he was conducting a private, deadly concert.
He's a natural. A born marksman. Leo realized. Headshot.
Further down the line, Rourke was handling the rifle like a toy, firing off rapid, aggressive bursts. He wasn't precise, but he was intimidating, the sheer volume of fire chewing up the landscape in front of his target. Berserk.
And Lysander was with the grenadiers, learning the arc and thump of the launcher. Boomer.
Their roles were crystallizing before his eyes.
After the range, it was tactical drills. They practiced fireteam maneuvers in a mock village of crumbling concrete buildings. Sergeant Voss stalked them, a phantom of criticism.
"ALBRIGHT! YOU'RE THE SCOUT! YOUR HEAD IS ON A SWIVEL! YOU'RE NOT WINDOW SHOPPING!"
"MILLER! STOP CHARGING LIKE A BULL! YOU'RE PART OF A TEAM! YOU'RE A BERSERKER, NOT AN IDIOT! USE THAT RAGE, DON'T LET IT USE YOU!"
They were tasked with clearing a two-story building. As they stacked up on the door, Leo felt a strange pull. He knelt, pretending to check his boot, and pressed his fingers to the ground.
What's inside?
He couldn't see through walls, but he could feel. He felt the vibrations of his squad's nervous breathing through the soles of their boots. He felt the hollow emptiness of the ground floor. And he felt a subtle, different vibration from directly above them. A shifting weight.
"Sergeant," Leo said, his voice low. "There's someone upstairs. Directly above this door."
Voss's eyes narrowed. "A guess, Vance?"
"No, Sergeant."
Voss didn't question him further. "Heads up! Second floor! Miller, on point! Go!"
The breach was chaotic, but they were ready. Rourke stormed the stairs, and they cleared the upper room efficiently, "neutralizing" the surprised training corporal who had been waiting for them.
After the exercise, Voss pulled Leo aside. The Sergeant's flinty eyes bore into him.
"That wasn't a guess," Voss stated. It wasn't a question.
"No, Sergeant."
"You felt it. Through the ground." Voss's voice was low, for Leo's ears only. "The crystal didn't reject you, did it? It did something else. Something they don't have a name for."
Leo remained silent, his heart hammering.
"Listen to me, boy," Voss growled, leaning in close. "The army sees you as a Null. A number. I see a tool. A unique, unregistered tool. On my battlefield, you use every tool you have to keep your men alive. You understand? You hide nothing from me. You use that... whatever it is. You hone it. Because out there, the Vorlag won't care what you call it. They'll just kill you if you're weak."
He turned to leave, then paused. "And Vance? Your rifle work is pathetic. You fight the weapon. You need to make it a part of you. Until you do, you're a liability."
That night, Leo lay in his bunk, Voss's words echoing in his mind. Make it a part of you.
He looked at the VX-39, leaning against the foot of his bed. It was a thing of metal and wood, cold and dead. But the earth was alive. His connection was to life, to growth, to foundation.
How could he marry the two?
He closed his eyes and thought of the crystal's warmth, the whisper of the soil. He thought of the rifle not as a tool of death, but as an extension of his will to protect. To protect his squad. To get back to his family.
It was a shift in perspective, small but fundamental. The rifle wasn't a foreign object anymore. It was the shield he would use to defend his foundation.
He was a son of the earth. And he was learning that even the earth sometimes had to fight back.